A WOMAN’S DEBT

SUCCESSFUL NOVELS
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Published by
WARD, LOCK & CO., Limited,
in various editions.

• THE LITTLE BLUE GODDESS
• AS WE FORGIVE THEM
• THE DAY OF TEMPTATION
• AN EYE FOR AN EYE
• GUILTY BONDS
• THE IDOL OF THE TOWN
• IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE
• IN WHITE RAIMENT
• THE LURE OF LOVE
• THE MYSTERIOUS THREE
• NO GREATER LOVE
• THE PLACE OF DRAGONS
• THE SIGN OF SILENCE
• THE TEMPTRESS
• THE WILES OF THE WICKED
• THE HOTEL X
• THE HEART OF A PRINCESS
• THREE KNOTS
• THE YOUNG ARCHDUCHESS
• No. 7 SAVILLE SQUARE
• THE LADY-IN-WAITING
• SCRIBES AND PHARISEES
• THE BRONZE FACE
• A WOMAN’S DEBT
• THE SIGN OF THE STRANGER
• THE BOND OF BLACK
• THE BROKEN THREAD
• THE COURT OF HONOUR
• SINS OF THE CITY
• THE MARKED MAN
• WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE
• A MAKER OF SECRETS
• THE VALROSE MYSTERY
• THE BLACK OWL
• THE SCARLET SIGN
• THE HOUSE OF EVIL

A WOMAN’S
DEBT
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of “The Temptress,” “The Way of Temptation,”
“The Hotel X,” “The Bronze Face,” etc.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

To
RUBY GRAYSON

CONTENTS

A WOMAN’S DEBT

CHAPTER I
A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW!

“You’re a lucky chap, Croxton, to have got the measure of the old man so well. I don’t suppose it will be long before you blossom into a partner.”

The speaker, Archie Brookes, a slim elegant young fellow, very good-looking but with a somewhat effeminate expression, cast a sidelong glance at his companion as he uttered the remark, to observe covertly what impression it made upon him.

There was no love lost between these two young men, although they were thrown constantly into each other’s society. Richard Croxton was the confidential secretary of Rupert Morrice, the well-known foreign banker and financier, whose firm had colossal dealings abroad. Brookes was a nephew and great favourite of the financier’s wife, the son of a dearly beloved sister who had died many years ago. In consequence of that relationship, and the partiality of his aunt, he was a frequent, almost a daily, visitor to the big house in Deanery Street, Park Lane, where the Morrices entertained largely and dispensed lavish hospitality.

Croxton’s voice was very cold, as he replied to the other’s suggestion. “Those are the sort of things one does not permit oneself to speculate about, much less to discuss.”

For a second an angry gleam showed in the light blue eyes of Brookes. Not troubled with very refined feelings himself, he thought it was rank hypocrisy on the part of Richard to refuse to talk to a man of his own age about prospects upon which he must often have meditated. But the angry gleam passed away quickly. Archie Brookes was a very self-contained young man. He seldom allowed his temper to get the better of him, and he never indulged in sarcastic remarks.

“Ah, you’ve got a very wise head upon your shoulders, Dick,” he said in a genial tone, and accentuating his air of good-fellowship by the unfamiliar use of the Christian name. “You’ll never let your tongue give you away. But I am sure it will be as I say. Uncle Rupert thinks the world of you, and he has no near relative of his own. What more natural than that you should succeed?”

To his emphatic reiteration of his previous remarks, Richard made no reply. While always perfectly civil to this elegant-mannered young man for whom he felt a vague dislike, he never encouraged intimacy. He was just a little resentful that he had been addressed as “Dick.” Nothing in the world would have induced him to accost the other as “Archie,” although they met nearly every day, and the one was the favourite nephew of the mistress of the house, and the other was as good as the adopted son of the master.

There was a certain element of romance about the introduction of Richard Croxton into the Morrice ménage. The great financier, hard as iron in his business dealings, was in private life a man of the greatest sentiment and sensibility. Some years before he met the lady who was now his wife, he had been desperately in love with a charming girl, who had been one of the fashionable beauties of the day.

The fate of this lovely girl had been a sad and tragic one. With the world at her feet, she had bestowed her affections upon a man utterly unworthy—a rake, a gambler—and a spendthrift, and alienated her friends and her family by marrying him. On her death-bed she had sent for her old lover and confided her only child to his care. Rupert Morrice had accepted the trust, his heart warming to the son, as he grew to know him, not only for his own qualities, but for the sake of the mother whom he had so fondly loved with the passionate ardour of a strong, intense nature.

He had taken the young fellow into his own house and made him his confidential secretary. Some women might have resented such a sudden intrusion, but Mrs. Morrice was not of a petty or jealous nature. She grew in time to be very fond of Richard Croxton, and did not in the least begrudge him his place in her husband’s affections.

There sauntered up to the two young fellows a very distinguished-looking man of about fifty years of age. Aristocrat was written all over him—in his tall, elegant figure, his aquiline features, his long, shapely, well-manicured hands, his cultivated and well-bred voice. This was Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the paternal uncle of Archie, a well-known personage in London society, a member of some of the most exclusive clubs, and, report said, the possessor of considerable wealth. He had added the name of Clayton on inheriting a fortune from a distant relative.

He greeted Croxton with an air of great cordiality. His manners were very polished, some people thought they were just a trifle too suave for perfect sincerity.

“Well, my dear Richard, how goes the world with you?” Using the privilege of seniority, he always addressed the young man by his Christian name. For his part, Croxton did not always feel anything like the same antagonism towards the uncle that he felt for the nephew, but he did not really like him. There was something too oily about the man for his taste.

Some commonplace reply was made to this inquiry, and Sir George went on in his smooth, well-bred tones.

“A charming gathering, everything perfect and in good taste, as usual. I really think this is almost the most pleasing house in London; luxury without ostentation, wealth without oppressive magnificence. But then who can wonder at it when you have host and hostess who pull together so splendidly?”

He was a great hand at compliments, this elegant-mannered man of the world, well-known on every race-course in England, well-known in Paris and at Monte Carlo, where he played with varying fortune, sometimes winning, more frequently losing. For he was an inveterate gambler.

And in paying his flowery compliments, either directly, or as in this case, obliquely through the medium of a third party, he generally laid it on with a trowel, so to speak. But to-night, in praising the Morrices as he did, he was not speaking much more than the truth.

For wealthy as they were, both Morrice and his wife loathed anything in the shape of ostentation. They left that to the nouveau riche. The man had been used to riches from a boy, they were no novelty to him, for his grandfather had founded the great business of which he had for so many years been the head. His wife, though poor for her position, was said to be descended from a very old family. Such people as these were not likely to shock their friends and acquaintances with vulgar display.

The house in Deanery Street looked very charming with its softly shaded lights, its profusion of flowers, its crowd of beautifully dressed women and well-groomed men. It wanted about three weeks to Christmas. Very shortly the host and hostess were leaving for a month’s sojourn at Mürren, to enjoy the ski-ing. Richard Croxton and Rosabelle Sheldon, a niece and ward of the financier, were to accompany them.

Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary remarks.

“Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not actually the most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined with tact and manners.”

Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession of both in great abundance.

He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think only in thousands.”

Richard thought he understood. Sir George’s habits were pretty well-known. He betted on every race; cards and all forms of gambling had for him a fatal allurement. With such weaknesses, a rich man might often find himself temporarily poor.

“You are a lucky young fellow, my dear Richard, to have been brought up under the careful guidance of such a wise mentor as Rupert Morrice. The man is sound to the core; no weaknesses, no failings. He has told me that he has never touched a card in his life, nor made a bet. And yet, withal, he is not a bit of a Puritan.”

Richard was quite aware of the fact that he was a very lucky person; that, thanks perhaps mostly to that old love-affair, he had won the favour of the wealthy financier. But he was not over-pleased to have the fact rubbed into him so very persistently by this smooth-mannered man of the world, whose attitude towards himself, he fancied, always showed a trace of bland superiority.

He wished that he could get away from the too close proximity of the uncle and nephew, and was meditating how best to accomplish his object, when Providence intervened in the shape of Rosabelle Sheldon, who fluttered up to them.

She was a very charming person, this good-looking girl over whose fair head some twenty-two summers had passed. Her blue eyes looked at you with a full unwavering glance that told you there was no meanness or pettiness in her composition, that she was open and frank. She had a fine figure, a splendid complexion, an exquisite mouth, which, when she smiled, revealed perfect teeth. She was a merry-hearted girl, fond of dancing, fond of sport, loving an outdoor life, and of a most equable temper. But sunny as was her normal disposition, she was capable of grave moods when occasion called them forth, and could be very serious when she was deeply moved.

“I am dying for an ice. Please take me and get me one, Dick, that is if I am not interrupting an important conversation,” she said, addressing the young man.

Sir George regarded her with that benign smile of his which, when he bestowed it upon women, suggested a subtle flattery and appreciation of their charm.

“You’ve been enjoying yourself very much, I can see, my dear Rosabelle, from the happy light on your expressive face. But I wager you will enjoy yourself more at Mürren, delightful as this evening has been, and is.”

The girl laughed gaily. “Oh, Sir George, how well you understand me. I enjoy nearly everything, you know; I am made that way. But above all things, I am an out-of-door girl, and I prefer to take my pleasures in the open air when possible.”

She went away on Richard’s arm, leaving uncle and nephew standing together side by side.

“Two types of people born with silver spoons in their mouths,” remarked the elder man in his smooth, even voice. “She is the apple of old Rupert’s eyes, and young Croxton is as dear to him as a son. They will ultimately get the millions the old man has piled up. And unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a pretty good understanding between the young couple, and the millions will be united.”

The nephew had not spoken up to the present. Truth to tell, when Sir George was there with his ceaseless flow of urbane small talk, it was not very easy for another person to get a hearing, but now he found voice.

“I have not the slightest doubt of that. The old boy seems to approve, apparently has no wish that she should look higher, and my aunt doesn’t disapprove, although I don’t think it would greatly affect matters if she did. Miss Rosabelle, good-tempered as she is, has a very strong will of her own in things that affect her strongly, and the old man, being so fond of them both, would take their part against his wife.”

Sir George shrugged his shoulders. “What must be will be. It is a pity though that this young Croxton has fascinated her. But for him, you might have had a chance, and of course you would have had your aunt’s backing.”

“I’m not the sort that finds favour in the eyes of men like Morrice,” said the nephew curtly. “He leads too strenuous a life himself to take very kindly to an idler like me. And Croxton might be his own son from certain aspects of his character. He’s a tremendous worker, like the old man, and I fancy Rosabelle prefers the strenuous type herself, and that she has no great liking for people who just saunter through life.”

“Strange that Morrice should work so hard at his time of life, although of course fifty-five is not a very great age. You’d think he had millions enough without slaving to pile up a few more for the young people to spend. And he has no vices, no weaknesses to run away with his money.” And again Sir George indulged in that rather melancholy sigh as he gave utterance to these sage remarks.

“He’ll die in harness as his father and grandfather died before him,” said the young man decidedly. “It’s ingrained in them. But it does seem a pity that there’s nobody of his own blood to take the reins, I mean of course in the male line. But see, my aunt is beckoning me. We shall meet as usual to-morrow, if I don’t come across you again to-night.”

Sir George made his exit; evening parties did not appeal to him greatly. He went to one of his clubs where he was sure to find some eager gambling spirits like himself, and Archie Brookes made his way through the crowded rooms to his aunt, with whom he held a long conversation.

Mrs. Morrice was a handsome, charming mannered woman, some five years younger than her husband. Rupert Morrice had remained a bachelor till he was thirty-five, faithful to the memory of the beautiful girl who had made such a tragic wreck of her life, and then he had put the past away from him as far as it was possible, and married his present wife.

His father had died young, and he had been at the head of affairs for some six years and was a man of very considerable wealth, for he had been the only son and inherited a large fortune as well as the lucrative and old-established business. It would not have been difficult for him, in such a position, to have made a brilliant marriage; had he so chosen, he might have entered the ranks of the aristocracy, for more than one dowerless Belgravian maiden would have welcomed him as a suitor.

But although he had plenty of business ambitions, he was not very ambitious socially, considering his vast wealth. He had no desire to enter a proud and impoverished family who might think they were condescending when they allowed him to mate with their blue-blooded daughter. For rich as he was, he had come of homely stock, the founder of the great business having been a poor man of humble origin who had begun on the lowest rung of the ladder.

So he followed his own inclinations. He went abroad for a long holiday and returned with a wife, much to the astonishment of his friends and acquaintances. And not very much was vouchsafed about the antecedents of the lady who had become the wife of the much-sought-after banker. The world was given to understand that she was a woman of good family, but no very full details were given until the arrival of Sir George Clayton-Brookes upon the scene, when it was announced that a younger brother of his had married her sister.

The long conversation between Archie Brookes and his aunt came to an end presently, and then the young man took his departure. Like Sir George, he was not greatly interested in this kind of function. He did not belong to the exclusive clubs which opened their doors to his fashionable uncle, but there were less pretentious establishments which welcomed him. Like his relative, he was addicted to cards and betting, and was only really happy when in the society of kindred spirits.

Rosabelle and young Croxton spent some time together, while the uncle and nephew had been discussing them, and Archie Brookes had held that long conversation with his aunt. When young people have got much to say to each other, it takes a long time to consume an ice.

As they came back to the crowded rooms, the first person they met was Rupert Morrice himself. He was a fine-looking, grey-bearded man, carrying his fifty-five years well. The face was a little hard, perhaps, the clear blue eyes were very keen, but the tones of his voice showed that there was a very tender strain in his composition. He gave a kindly glance to his niece, and addressed the young man.

“I hope we shan’t be kept up too late, Dick; we have to be astir betimes to-morrow, to open that safe.”

Rosabelle smiled her sunny smile. “That wonderful safe, uncle, of which nobody but you and Dick knows the secret.”

The great financier indulged in a satisfied chuckle. “Yes, young lady, you may smile, but I am very proud of it. It is ‘some’ safe, as the Yankees would say, I can tell you.”

CHAPTER II
THE RIFLED SAFE

Later on, in the small hours, the young couple had a further tête-à-tête. The members of the family had done their duty by their several guests, and were at leisure to follow their own inclinations for a while.

A celebrated violinist played the opening notes of a wailing melody—the best of its kind was always a feature of the entertainments at Deanery Street—and at the sound, Richard exchanged a meaning glance with his sweetheart. Quietly they stole away to a secluded corner where they could whisper away to their hearts’ content, and were safe from interruption.

“Do you find it so difficult to screw up your courage to the sticking point, you silly old Dick?” asked the girl presently in a low voice, pursuing a conversation that had been proceeding for some little time.

The young man smiled; the smile was a little rueful and apologetic. “To tell the truth, my darling, I do. When I think of it in cold blood, it seems such a daring thing to do.”

“‘Faint heart’—you know the rest,” said the girl, in a bantering voice. “Well, Dick, if you can’t manage it, I shall have to throw my maidenly modesty to the winds, and undertake it myself. I am not afraid of my uncle, if you are.”

“But from my point of view, dear, you must admit it wants a lot of pluck. A poor devil of a fellow with a couple of hundred a year of his own, asking a millionaire to consent to a marriage with a niece whom he is going to make his heiress. Wouldn’t ninety-nine men out of a hundred kick me out of the house in double quick time?”

The smile on Rosabelle’s charming face grew sunnier than ever. “But first of all, we will say, and it is the truth, that he is the hundredth, not one of the ninety-nine. And then, it isn’t as if he didn’t know. I don’t think we have kept our little secret very much to ourselves, have we, Dick?”

“I am not so sure that he does know,” answered the still doubting lover. “He is always so frightfully absorbed in his business, I think it uses up all his faculties. We know we are in love with each other, but I doubt if the fact is so patent to everybody as you think, my darling.”

“Rubbish!” cried the girl pertly. “Don’t you make any mistake about Uncle Rupert being so wrapt up in business that he doesn’t observe anything outside. Why, those keen eyes of his never let the most trivial thing escape them. And I have often seen them resting on us with a very intelligent expression. Take my word for it, Dick, he knows what is going on, and he approves. You know how swiftly he puts his foot down when he has a mind to. If he disapproved, he would soon give me a very strong hint, or if he did not care to speak to me himself, I should soon have a serious warning from auntie.”

Young Croxton was greatly encouraged by these words. He had a firm belief in his sweetheart’s judgment and powers of penetration.

“That settles it then,” he said, speaking in a much more confident tone. “I will tackle him to-morrow. I want to get it settled before we go away to Mürren. Oh, my darling, if it is all right, as you think, shan’t we have a lovely holiday?”

She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “And, as for all that nonsense about having no money, why, I have no money either to speak of. You have two hundred a year of your own, I have a hundred. Well, Dick, if we were very wilful, I daresay we might be brave enough to start on that, even if the worst were to happen. But there, don’t let us think of that; I tell you it is going to be all right.”

He returned the affectionate squeeze she had given him with interest. “By Jove, you do put courage into a fellow, little girl.”

“Not so little, if you please, Dick. I am rather above the average height, you know. And if he is going to make me his heiress, as you think, he doesn’t intend to leave you in the cold. He has treated you like a son from the day you first came into the house. Everybody knows how he worshipped your mother, and kept single all those years because of her. I do not say he is not fond of auntie in a steady, quiet way. But his other love was the sort that comes once in a lifetime, and never again.” She bent her head very close and whispered shyly in his ear. “He loved your mother, Dick, in the way that you and I love each other, and of course he loves her son for her sake.”

And after such a declaration, it is small wonder that these devoted young lovers, knowing they were safe from observation, testified their affection for each other in a long caress.

Later on, when the last car had rolled away, and the somewhat weary host and hostess were alone, a brief conversation took place between them on the subject of the young couple. It was begun by Mrs. Morrice.

“You still approve of it, Rupert?” It was evident from these words that the matter had been discussed between them before. “Remember that Rosabelle is a very pretty girl, as well as a charming one, and will have plenty of lovers in time.”

By these remarks it might be inferred that if Mrs. Morrice did not offer actual opposition, she was quite ready to take a neutral attitude in the matter.

Her husband did not beat about the bush in the least, he was always a man who spoke out his mind unhesitatingly.

“Yes, I have thought it well out. If he is the man of Rosabelle’s fancy, and everything points that way, I am quite willing he should marry her. The moment he asks for my consent he shall have it.”

Mrs. Morrice heaved a gentle little sigh. “I know how fond you are of Richard, that you could hardly be fonder of him if he were your own son. Well, I own I am just a little sorry that her choice did not fall upon Archie. It is not to be wondered at, for he is to me what Richard Croxton is to you.”

Mr. Morrice frowned ever so slightly at the suggestion, but he turned away his face quickly so that his wife should not see it. He had wasted his heart upon Richard’s mother, and he could never give another woman what he had given to her. But he was fond of his wife, he appreciated her charm, her good qualities, the help she gave him in the social side of his life, and he would not have pained her for the world.

“If Rosabelle had set her heart upon Archie,” he said gravely, “I cannot say for certain what my attitude would have been. I should have hated to make her miserable, and yet—and yet I could not have approved. I am glad that things are as they are. Archie has his good qualities, no doubt; he is pleasant and amiable; I daresay he would make a good husband. But, forgive me if I speak a little too plainly, he is an incurable idler, and much too fond of pleasure—I could not bear to see her married to a man of that stamp.”

There was a little quiver in the wife’s voice as she replied: “Are you not just a little too hard upon poor Archie, Rupert? Remember, he has not had the advantages of Richard’s training. If he had had you for a tutor, how different he would have been. My brother-in-law is not an ideal guardian of youth. An idler himself by the accident of birth, and I fear by inclination, he does not see the necessity for work in others.”

The great financier, whose life was one long strenuous working day, from choice not necessity, shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, his uncle will leave him his money, that seems understood, and therefore Archie has no need to work for a subsistence. But I should think better of him if he took up some occupation, if only as a hobby. Nothing saps a man’s character like the idle loafing life he is leading now.”

There was a note of bitterness in Mrs. Morrice’s voice as she replied to those uncompromising remarks.

“It is not at all certain that some day Archie will not have to work for a living.”

Morrice looked at his wife in some surprise. “But Sir George is credited with being a well-off man. You have told me the same yourself.”

“He is well off perhaps now. But whether he dies rich or not will depend upon what the gaming table and the race-course have left him.”

Mr. Morrice pursed his lips, and his face grew very hard. It wore the look that some of those who knew him in business dreaded to see. Upright and of iron resolution himself, he had small pity for the weak and self-indulgent. Above all, he loathed men who had made ducks and drakes of their money, who threw it away in unprofitable enterprises.

“I own that I have heard some rumours of this, that he bets too highly, that he plays for too big stakes,” he said presently. “Well, it would be a good thing if Master Archie could be removed from such a corrupting influence.”

“Would to heaven that he could be.” There was a note of almost anguish in the woman’s voice as she spoke, then she recovered herself quickly, and added in a calmer tone: “But it is too late. His uncle worships him, and he is devoted to his uncle.”

The morning came. Mr. Morrice was not going to his business house; a client was calling on him in Deanery Street, and after that visit had been paid, he was going to a jeweller’s in the West End for a certain purpose. He had lately purchased some very fine and expensive diamonds, which he had put away in readiness for an important event—the birthday of his wife falling a week hence. He was going to have these made up into a necklace and present it to her upon the happy occasion. Like most women, she was passionately fond of jewels, and though she already had plenty, he knew she would be delighted to add to her store.

The client who was paying him a visit was coming to receive a large sum of money, a million francs, which the financier had put for safe custody in that wonderful safe to which allusion has been made.

Morrice and Richard breakfasted alone that morning at an early hour, while the ladies stayed in bed to recover from the fatigue of the previous evening.

Neither of the men spoke much during the progress of the meal. The financier’s busy brain was at work upon his various schemes, and he had almost forgotten that conversation a few hours earlier with his wife concerning her brother-in-law and Archie Brookes.

Young Croxton was very preoccupied too. This was the day on which, fortified by the encouraging counsels of his sweetheart, he had resolved to screw up his courage and ask Morrice’s consent to his betrothal to Rosabelle.

The two men from time to time looked at their watches, and at last the elder rose with a quick, alert movement.

“It wants five minutes, Dick. Let us be going.” They went into Morrice’s study, a spacious room, solidly furnished. In a corner stood a big safe, from which, when the actual time arrived, they were going to take the packet of French notes and the loose diamonds. Two days previously they had shifted them to an easily accessible spot.

They stood before the formidable-looking receptacle, watches in hand, and then with a simultaneous exclamation of “Now!” from each, Morrice and his confidential secretary inserted their two separate keys. The heavy door swung back, the financier advanced his hand to the spot where the articles had been placed, and drew back with a cry of dismay.

The packet of French notes, the canvas bag containing the loose diamonds, had been removed from their hiding place, also a parcel of private papers containing important secrets.

CHAPTER III
RICHARD IS DISMISSED

For an instant the two men stared at each other in blank amazement as they stood in front of the big safe, the door of which had been unlocked with such startling results.

The elder man recovered himself first. His was a strong, resolute character, and it was always said of him by those who knew him intimately, that no man could grasp the bearings of an unexpected situation more readily. Croxton seemed dazed and stupefied beyond the power of speech.

“But they were there, all of them, when we shifted them the other morning, the packet of notes, the bag of diamonds, the parcel of papers. You saw them, we both saw them.”

The young man’s voice was trembling as he answered: “We both saw them, as you say, sir. They were there, right enough.”

The big financier took a great interest in the mechanism of safes; it had always been one of his hobbies. He had tried half a dozen different kinds during his business career, and in the present one he was confident he had found the latest thing in ingenuity and safety.

In truth it was a marvel, and there was nothing else like it in all the world. He had availed himself to the full of the resources of the locksmith’s art, and had contributed a few practical suggestions as to the actual mechanism himself. It had a marvellous time lock, the secret of which was only known to himself and his secretary. The time when the safe could be opened was automatically controlled by the day of the month.

For example, if it was secretly set to open at nine o’clock on June the twelfth, it would not open before nine plus six (the sixth month of the year), plus twelve (the day of the month). Therefore, it would be twenty-seven minutes past nine before the two keys could be inserted, and then only for one minute. If that time passed, the safe could not be opened till next day, and then not one minute but two minutes later.

There was a long pause in which both men were thinking furiously. Richard Croxton, recovering slowly from the shock, was beginning to realize the awkwardness of the situation with regard to himself, and to anticipate the thoughts that were forming themselves in the mind of the man who had, up to the present, treated him more like a father than an employer.

Gradually over Morrice’s countenance came that hard, grim look which Richard had seen a few times during their association together; notably in the early days when some gross act of carelessness or inattention had aroused dissatisfaction and subsequent anger.

“Well, what have you to say about it?” thundered the banker at length. When he had once come to a conclusion he never beat about the bush, but went to the point as straight as an arrow.

The unfortunate young man moistened his dry lips with his tongue. It was an agonizing moment for him, and, engrossed as he was with the terrible aspect of the situation, he could not help thinking of Rosabelle and her heartening words uttered a few hours previously. This was the day on which he had resolved to confess to her uncle his love for the charming girl, and beg his consent to their betrothal. In a few seconds this roseate prospect had been blotted out, and he was confronting, not a kindly master and friend, but a stern and angry judge.

“I have nothing to say, sir, except that I am innocent, and that statement you do not look as if you were inclined to believe.”

The elder man emitted an angry exclamation, and the grim expression grew grimmer as he gazed searchingly at the pale and shaken young man.

“Richard Croxton, you are no fool, you can see the situation as it presents itself to me, as it would present itself to anybody who knew the circumstances. The secret of that safe is known only to us two, you and I alone have access to it with our separate keys. Even supposing for a moment, and it is a most wild supposition, that some third party could have gained temporary possession of your key and mine, and, after taking impressions of them, had duplicates made, how was he to know the secret of the mechanism, the time at which the safe would open. We saw the articles here two days ago; they have been taken between yesterday and this morning.” He paused and added significantly: “At that time when the safe could be opened, I had left the house early, and was in my private room in the city. You had work to finish here, and were to come down to me with the report you were preparing at twelve o’clock.”

It was difficult for Croxton to preserve his faculties of thought as the damning evidence grew and accumulated on him. But a ray of light seemed to pierce suddenly through his benumbed brain.

“We breakfasted together at eight o’clock, sir, and you left directly you had finished. After you had gone, I went up to my own room, and remained till it was time for me to leave to join you in the city. I never during that time entered this apartment. To that I am ready to swear; I will take any solemn oath you care to dictate to me.”

Morrice seemed just a little staggered by the solemnity with which these words were uttered, and for a second the hard, stern look melted, but only for a second. His keen, logical mind at once prompted the question.

“You say that you were in your own room practically all the time you were alone. Is there any evidence you can bring forward to corroborate this statement? Did Mrs. Morrice, Rosabelle, any of the servants look in upon you during that period?”

The young man made a despairing gesture: “Alas, no. It is very rarely that either Mrs. Morrice or Rosabelle pays me a visit when I am at work. The servants are hardly ever about the house at that time. And I know from what they said that both the ladies were out very early on a shopping expedition. I don’t suppose that anybody knew for certain whether I was here or in my own room. I have nothing to offer you, sir, but my bare word, my solemn oath, if you choose to accept it. But if I am what you appear to think me, my oath would carry no more weight than my word. Again I say, much as appearances are against me, inexplicable and astounding as the whole thing is, before heaven I am not the thief who has stolen your property.”

“Then if you are not the thief, I must be,” cried the irate financier with bitter sarcasm, “though, I take it, the most suspicious detective in the world would hardly dare to suspect me of purloining my own money and diamonds.”

There was another long pause. Morrice walked up and down the spacious room with long strides, the stern frown on his face now deepening, now clearing a little, as his conflicting thoughts raced through his brain. No doubt to him the brazen effrontery of the young man seemed incredible, in view of the damning facts of the situation. And that seemingly feeble excuse that he had been in his own room during the time of the burglary, during the whole period between breakfast and the moment when he left the house—did it hold water?

Was it a lie invented on the spur of the moment, or had it been thought out beforehand to be produced at the moment of discovery. And yet, if Richard were a cunning criminal, would he not have taken precautions to secure some sort of alibi? The theft from the safe would not have taken more than a minute, the articles were all together, their removal would have taken no time. He could have gone back to his room, rung the bell three or four times to summon a servant on one pretext or another. It might not have been convincing proof, for the robbery could have been accomplished so quickly, but it would have been better than no proof at all.

But then the cleverest criminals made often very stupid mistakes, and he could not believe the young man to be a hardened malefactor. He had some secret vices that had never been suspected, he had got into money difficulties; in his perplexity he had taken advantage of the trust reposed in him, and yielded to a sudden temptation.

And then, in the midst of his anger and disappointment, came softening thoughts of the dead mother whom he had loved with such a passionate devotion. Could he act towards her child as if he were a stranger between whom there had been no tie save that between employer and employed. The stern look melted away; he came up to the stricken Richard and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Listen to me, Dick. You are the son of the woman whom I would have given up everything else to make my wife, had she not preferred your father to me. When you were left to the tender mercies of the world, an orphan cast aside by your own family, with a small pittance, enough to keep you from actual want, I came to your rescue. I took you into my business; I took you into my house. I have not perhaps told you very definitely of my future intentions, but you can guess what they were likely to be. In a year or two I proposed to give you a share of my business. I have noticed the attachment between you and Rosabelle, who is very dear to me. I should have put no obstacles in your way.”

The bitter irony of it all! But for this disastrous happening, what a fair and golden future! The unhappy young man could not speak, but inwardly he was suffering tortures. Those beautiful dreams of an honourable and prosperous career, of a happy wedded life with the charming girl he loved so dearly—all had vanished in those hateful few moments!

“Listen to me, Dick,” went on the deep, resonant voice, and the tone was now one more of sorrow than anger. “Abandon this stubborn attitude of pretended innocence. Don’t regard me as the stern and inflexible judge, ready to mete out deserved punishment, but one who will incline to mercy, the mercy that all of us may stand in need of some day. Your mother’s son cannot be naturally dishonest, it is impossible. You have got into difficulties that I have never suspected; in an evil hour your better instincts yielded to your pressing needs, your fear of disgrace; and you did this base thing. Confess your fault, make restitution if you can, if it is not too late, and I will help you as I vowed to your mother I always would.”

A dreadful groan escaped from the tortured Richard. “You are one of the best and kindest men on God’s earth; my mother whom you so loved always told me so. If I were the guilty wretch you believe me to be I would go on my knees and implore your pardon. But I am not a thief, and I cannot restore what I have never taken.”

But Morrice, more than ever convinced of his obduracy, continued to urge him, in tones that were almost pleading.

“There must of course be something between us that can never be quite blotted out, in spite of repentance on the one side and forgiveness on the other. I could never again put you in a position of trust, for that fatal weakness might come over you once more. But I would give you a post where temptation could not assail you. You have spoken of your mother, so dear to us both. I implore you by the memory of that beloved woman who, for aught we know, is even now watching us from afar, to quit this stubborn attitude and confess the truth.”

No reply came from the accused man, and the hard, stern look came back to the banker’s face. At that moment the door of the room slowly opened, and the charming vision of Rosabelle, looking her sweetest and daintiest, stood framed in the opening.

“May I come in?” she cried in her fresh, girlish voice.

“Come in, my poor child,” was her uncle’s answer. “Come in; something has happened that you will have to know sooner or later, although I fear the knowledge may break your heart.”

White as death at these ominous words, she advanced into the room, closing the door, her troubled glance changing from the stern, set face of her uncle to the pallid countenance of her lover, the two men who were the dearest to her in the world, loving the one with a filial devotion that could not have been surpassed by a daughter, the other with all the fervour of her ardent youth.

It was a painful scene. In a few trenchant words, the more weighty from the cold, judicial tone in which they were uttered, Morrice explained to her what had happened. She learned to a certain extent the secret of that wonderful safe, about the protecting properties of which she had so often laughingly rallied its owner, this wretched safe which had worked the ruin of Richard, and now menaced her own happiness.

She was too much dazed by the sudden and tragic happening to do much more than grasp a few salient facts. The safe was opened by two keys, one carried by each of the two men. They alone of all the inmates of the house knew of its mechanism. That safe had been opened, and certain valuable property extracted.

“But how could it be opened by one person, if it requires two keys?” she cried, grasping at the first difficulty that presented itself to her in her distress.

Mr. Morrice did not mince matters. “If I had a duplicate key of the one carried by the other man, I could open it alone, and vice versa,” he explained.

She understood the horrible suggestion, but her heart refused to credit it. Of course she realized that her uncle would not steal his own property, that would be a surmise altogether too ridiculous. But it was equally impossible to believe that Richard, the man in whom the great financier had placed such implicit trust, to whom her whole soul went out in pity and yearning, should stoop to such a dastardly act, with all the long and sinister preparations for its execution.

She stretched her hands out imploringly to her lover. “Richard, you are no thief, nothing shall ever convince me of it,” she cried in a voice of agony. “Deny it, deny it to us both. Say something that will persuade him of the falseness of the accusation, of the injustice he is doing you.”

The miserable young man was hardly less moved than herself. “I have denied it, Rosabelle; I have offered to swear it, to take any oath he may dictate to me. But he refuses to believe either word or oath. I can do no more. Thank heaven, black as appearances are, you believe that I am an honest man.”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” she cried brokenly. “I do not care a straw for appearances, if they were twice as strong against you as they are. I know you so well, my heart tells me that you have not done this horrible thing.”

And then Morrice delivered his sentence. Incensed as he was at what he considered the obstinacy of Croxton, he could not fail to be moved by the girl’s passionate vindication of her lover.

“Richard Croxton, needless to say that from this day forth we are strangers; my house can no longer give you shelter. For the sake of one whose memory I shall always revere, I shall take no steps. Nobody but Rosabelle and my wife will know the real reasons of your departure. I am now going to the city to get money to replace that which has been stolen. I shall go there and return here as quickly as possible. I have no heart for any other business to-day. When I return, let me find you gone. Later on I will invent some plausible explanation of the severance of our relations, and give it out to those who are interested.”

He turned on his heel without vouchsafing another glance at the miserable man upon whom, up to the present, he had lavished kindness and affection, strode through the hall, and a minute later he had left the house.

The two wretched lovers were left alone, and when the door had closed, the poor girl broke down, and threw herself into Richard’s arms, sobbing bitterly.

CHAPTER IV
GIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND

“What an awful day!” she cried when Richard had calmed her a little, not that he was in much of a mood to administer consolation to others. “And last night, when we talked of our future, and I told you to pluck up your courage, I felt so gay and light-hearted. Oh, Dick dear, it will kill me; but no, I must not let it do that. We must both be brave, and strain every nerve to prove your innocence.”

“It is indeed a tragic day,” corroborated her lover. “And, my darling, but for this inexplicable mystery, it would all have been such plain-sailing. In the midst of his reproaches, he paused to tell me that he knew of our love for each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in the way.”

The poor girl sobbed afresh at this. To have the cup of happiness dashed down when it was so near her lips—could there be a more poignant disappointment? But presently, she rallied and dried her tears, and inquired his plans for the future. Morrice had ordered him to quit the house before he returned to it. There could be no disobeying that command.

“I have often spoken to you of the dear old soul who was first my mother’s nurse and then mine. My grandfather left her a small annuity as reward for her faithful services to his family. She has a tiny little cottage at Petersham, near Richmond. She will take me in until I have collected my thoughts sufficiently to decide upon my future.”

“And I shall come and see you there, Dick,” cried the girl eagerly, “even though you are forbidden this house.”

“My darling, you must not do anything without your uncle’s sanction. In certain moods, he is a stern and hard man.”

Richard felt that life, in a way, was over for him, but for this brilliant young creature it was only just beginning. Touched as he was by her faith in him, he knew that it would be folly for her to cling to a man over whom hung the shadow of disgrace. As yet, he could not wound her feelings by telling her so. But presently, when he had recovered himself sufficiently to think and plan, he would pass quietly out of her life.

“He may be stern and hard at times, but he is always just,” said Rosabelle. “He will not think the less of me because I refuse to believe you guilty. Why, Dick, I know you so well,” she added impetuously. “I would not credit the evidence of my own eyes against your word. If these things had been found in your pockets and you had denied you stole them, I would have believed you, and known the real thief had put them there for the purpose of incriminating you.”

Young Croxton smiled a wan smile at his sweetheart’s vehemence. Can anything equal the blind faith of a woman in the man she loves? It is one of those qualities amongst many which they must surely derive from a divine source.

“He is sore and angry over his loss now,” went on the beautiful girl. “In a day or two he will calm down, and see that he has been too hasty in his judgment.”

“I have never known him angry over losses, and hardly a year goes by that he does not make heavy ones,” answered Richard sadly. “No, to do him justice, what has cut him to the quick is the supposed discovery of my unworthiness.”

Half an hour later, Richard Croxton had left the familiar house in Deanery Street which had sheltered him so long. His sweetheart bade him a tearful farewell, and Mrs. Morrice, to whom the young couple explained the terrible happenings of the morning, showed considerable emotion. In her heart, she would have preferred her nephew, Archie Brookes, as a husband for Rosabelle, but she had always been very fond of Richard, and stoutly expressed her belief in his innocence.

A taxi bore him swiftly to the neat little ivy-covered cottage at Petersham, where he received a hearty welcome from his old nurse, a comely old woman verging upon her seventieth year, but hale and vigorous for her age. To her he did not explain the actual truth, but simply stated that circumstances had suddenly arisen which rendered necessary the severing of his connection with Mr. Morrice.

The good, simple old soul said little, but she was very upset at the news. She knew very well that the great financier had treated him like a son, and that this sudden separation meant the ruin of his bright prospects.

“And Miss Rosabelle?” she inquired anxiously. Hitherto he had kept few secrets from the faithful and sympathetic old woman, who had long ago learned the history of his love affair.

“She will come and see me, dear old nurse, that is to say, if her uncle does not expressly forbid her.”

Mrs. Hart, such was the name of this faithful old servant, made no comment upon this significant remark. It crossed her mind that it was more than probable Richard’s departure had been caused by this very love-affair; that fond as he was of him, the wealthy financier had resented his attentions to his niece, who, in the course of time, would be a considerable heiress.

It may be observed in passing that the same opinion was held in the servants’ hall at Deanery Street, where the young man’s sudden exit had naturally aroused a tremendous amount of interest. It had also occurred to Morrice, desirous of keeping the true facts to himself, more perhaps from respect for the dead than tenderness to the living, that he might get his wife to give some hints which would produce the same impression amongst their acquaintances.

True to her promise, in a few days Rosabelle arrived at the ivy-covered cottage, having warned her lover, in a letter received by the first post in the morning, of her visit.

He noticed that she drove up in a taxi, not, as was usual, in one of her uncle’s cars. He was, of course, overwhelmed with joy at seeing her so soon, but he was very anxious that the fidelity to himself should not entail disastrous consequences to her own fortunes. So the first question he asked was whether Mr. Morrice knew of her visit.

“Everything is straight and above-board, dear Dick,” was the girl’s answer. “I had a long talk with him yesterday morning at his early breakfast. I got up early myself in order to seize a chance of finding him alone. He seemed very sad and preoccupied, but he was not as stern and harsh as on that dreadful day. I told him a lot of things as they came into my head, how dearly we loved each other, how we had fallen in love from the first day we met—that no matter if all the world turned against you, I should still be faithful, that my one great object was that you should take steps to get yourself cleared and discover the real criminal.”

“And what did he say to all this?” asked the young man eagerly. “I can guess, my darling, that you pleaded very well.”

“He listened very attentively, and was very quiet for a long time. When I had finished, he asked me if I wished him to send for detectives from Scotland Yard. I hastily said that I did, and that I was sure you would wish it too. ‘My poor child, you don’t know what you are talking about,’ was his answer. ‘The certain result of that would be that the man in whom you believe would be arrested, and once having taken the case up, I could not drop it, I should be bound to prosecute.’ That scared me dreadfully, you may be sure. His final words were spoken in a very sad voice. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie, my poor wronged Rosabelle. Richard Croxton through his own act has passed away from my life, as he must pass away from yours. You are young, and in time your grief will heal, and some day you will meet a man worthy of your love.’”

The young man’s head sunk on his breast. Yes, Mr. Morrice was right. Appearances were too black against him; if the authorities were called in, arrest would be sure to follow.

The girl went on in a low, tearful voice. “I told him that the day to which he looked forward would never come, that if I could not marry you, no other man should be my husband. And then, Dick, I ended with the boldest thing I had said yet—I am pretty brave as a rule but I own I trembled as I said it—I told him I was coming to see you here, that I would no more forsake you in your trouble than your mother would have done. She would have clung to you in your darkest hour because she loved you, and that I did not love you less.”

“And he did not forbid you?” cried the young man in amazement. He knew Rupert Morrice so well, of a nature singularly kind and generous, but hard as flint to evil-doers, to those who betrayed his trust.

“No, he did not forbid me, Dick, and I am almost as amazed as you are, but I think that reference to your mother softened him. It was a long time before he spoke, and then his words came very slowly. ‘If I allow you to do this, at any rate for the present, till I have thought matters out further, will you give me your solemn promise that you will only play the rôle of consoler, that you will do nothing rash?’ Of course I knew what he meant, that we might get secretly married. So I gave him that promise, Dick; do you blame me?”

“A thousand times No, my darling,” cried Croxton, as he took her in his arms and kissed away the tears on the sweet face. “And considering what he believes me to be, nay more, what he is sure I am, I cannot but marvel at his giving his consent.”

For a long time the young people talked together, and all through their conversation the one thought uppermost in Rosabelle’s mind was that her lover should take steps to clear himself, that he should not be content to rest under the unmerited stigma, that he should not meekly consent to pass out of their lives.

“If you do not act, I shall act myself,” she told him finally.

The young man listened attentively, and hope and resolution began to stir in him. He had been so stunned by the damning nature of the evidence against him, by the stern attitude of his once benevolent protector, that he had been crushed almost into insensibility, into a benumbing of his faculties. But, as the girl spoke in her bright, incisive way, the clouds about his brain seemed to melt. He seemed to see himself rehabilitated, able to prove to those whom it concerned that he was the honest man they had always believed him to be.

“The question is how to go to work,” he said gravely. “Mr. Morrice is right when he says that to call in Scotland Yard might lead to disastrous consequences. But we could employ a private detective to probe the mystery to the bottom. Even if he could not lay his hands on the actual thief, he might be able to prove my innocence.”

Rosabelle caught eagerly at the idea. “And where can we find the sort of man we want?”

“One of the cleverest is Gideon Lane; his office is in Shaftesbury Avenue. I know him a little, and Mr. Morrice knows him too. We employed him to watch a suspected clerk in our office, and he trapped him very cleverly.”

“Would it cost much to employ him?” asked the girl anxiously. She knew that Richard’s capital, like her own, was very small, and it was hardly likely that Morrice would spend any money on a case he had already pre-judged. It was not possible for her to help, for her uncle was her trustee and not likely to allow her to adventure a penny in such a cause.

But Croxton’s small amount of capital was entirely under his own control, and now that he was recovering from his despairing mood, he was fired with the desire to establish his innocence, and had no hesitation in employing some of it for the purpose.

After a great deal of discussion as to the initial steps to be taken, it was decided that Rosabelle should visit the detective, tell him the whole facts, and commission him to undertake the investigation on her own behalf. Richard would give her a brief letter of introduction to Gideon Lane, and furnish her with money to pay a preliminary fee.

The enthusiastic girl did not allow the grass to grow under her feet. Two days later she was seated in the waiting-room of the small suite of offices in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had sent in her letter of introduction and was waiting to be summoned to the presence of the well-known detective who was, fortunately for her impatience, disengaged. He was not many seconds reading the letter, but it seemed hours before the restless Rosabelle saw the inner door open, and was asked by a smart young typist to step in.

Mr. Gideon Lane rose to receive her, a tall, good-looking man with nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance; with his clean-shaven face and strong, resolute expression he might have been taken for an actor, there was certainly nothing about him to suggest an unraveller of mysteries. The most striking features in an agreeable countenance were his eyes, which were piercing and brilliant.

“I remember Mr. Croxton perfectly,” said the detective. “He was the confidential secretary of Mr. Morrice, and struck me as much above the ordinary young man in intelligence and quickness of perception. I hope he is quite well,” he finished politely.

This remark gave Rosabelle an easy opening. “He is quite well in health, Mr. Lane, but exceedingly unhappy, lying as he is at the moment under the stigma of a terrible accusation.”

Mr. Lane gathered from these serious words that the girl had come upon a grave errand. His face reflected her concern at once.

“I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Sheldon. I took rather a liking to the young man, he seemed so open and frank. Well, please tell me all the details, I take it you want my assistance in the matter. And please conceal nothing from me, if you want me to give you of my best. Let me know everything that tells against him, you will naturally inform me of everything in his favour.”

The shrewd man of the world divined immediately that there was a close bond between this charming girl and the accused man, and he put her at once at her ease by adding: “I need hardly tell you that what you say will never be divulged; you are as safe with me as if you were in the confessional.”

He had a very ingratiating manner with him, this calm, self-possessed man who looked more like an actor than a detective. Rosabelle felt very much at home with him, and at once launched forth in her narrative of the details of that eventful morning, as they had been told her by her lover.

Mr. Lane listened to her attentively without interruption. He judged it best to let her tell her story her own way, more particularly as she told it very well, without redundance or repetition. His questions would come later.

When she had finished, he sat silent for some time, while the girl regarded him anxiously. “It is, of course, too early for you to form any opinion?” she asked in a faltering voice, feeling the prolonged silence somewhat of a strain upon her nerves.

He shook his head. “A great deal too early, Miss Sheldon. Of course, it is easy to say at first blush, upon the evidence before us, those articles could only have been abstracted by one of two persons, Mr. Morrice or his secretary.”

“And it would be absurd to think that my uncle stole his own property,” cried the girl swiftly.

A rather non-committal smile illumined the calm face of the detective. “From your point of view, it would be absurd, as you most rightly say. From mine, it would be so very difficult to discover a plausible motive for such an act.”

She could not follow him in this subtle explanation, and waited in silence till he began to put certain questions to her. First, with regard to the servants, would she give him full particulars of their number, the nature of their duties, their length of service and so on?

She supplied him with the requested information. He entered all this in a private notebook, in a shorthand of his own invention which nobody could read but himself.

What did the family consist of? was his next question.

“My uncle and aunt, Richard Croxton and myself. Two other people came to the house who were practically of the family, Sir George Clayton-Brookes, my aunt’s brother-in-law, and young Archibald Brookes, his nephew and the son of my aunt’s sister.”

These particulars went into the notebook. “I have heard of Sir George, he is well known on the turf, and reputed to be a man of substance. I know nothing of the young man. Has he means of his own, or is he dependent upon his relatives?”

“Dependent upon Sir George, I believe,” answered Rosabelle. “We have always understood his uncle makes him a handsome allowance, and will leave him his property.”

Mr. Lane asked a few more questions and then closed his notebook. “Well, Miss Sheldon, that is as far as we can go at present. Before I start, I must visit the scene of operations and take a look at this wonderful safe. I take it that will not be easy to accomplish without Mr. Morrice’s knowledge and permission. Is he likely to refuse it?”

Rosabelle, needless to say, was a little dismayed. He had refused to call in Scotland Yard, would he peremptorily refuse admission to a private inquirer?

She hazarded her fears to Mr. Lane, who thought that he would yield in the matter. The fact that Richard Croxton was prepared to break into his small capital for the purpose of establishing his innocence, should make a favourable impression upon Mr. Morrice, however firmly he believed in the young man’s guilt. If Morrice obstinately refused, he would be forced to revise his opinion of that gentleman, although he was too diplomatic to say as much to Rosabelle.

“I will tell you the principal object of my visit, Miss Sheldon. The theft would have to be committed in a great hurry, and there are sure to be finger-marks on the safe. I want to take a photograph of them. If Mr. Morrice does refuse, for reasons sufficient to himself, I shall have to get a photograph of them somehow, and in this I dare say I shall have to avail myself of your co-operation.”

He smiled a little as he spoke. It was not the first time by many dozens that he had gone in at the back door where he had been refused entrance at the front, or obtained information he required in spite of every obstacle being put in his way.

Rosabelle was quite sure she understood what he was driving at. She would have dared anything for her lover, and if it was a question of smuggling Mr. Gideon Lane into her uncle’s room while he was in the city, her woman’s wit, sharpened by her love, would find a way.

“Now we will not waste time,” said the genial Mr. Lane as the excited girl rose to take her leave. “Pending the obtaining of your uncle’s permission to do the thing openly, I want you to co-operate with me in a little matter. Pay Mr. Croxton a visit as soon as possible and get him to give you an impression of his fingers. If you tell him what you want it for, he cannot refuse.”

“But, of course, he will not refuse,” cried the girl a little indignantly. “Would he have let me come to you if he was not prepared to face the ordeal? And if you find, as you will, that the finger-marks on the safe are not his, that will establish his innocence once and for all, will it not?”

Mr. Lane seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question. “It will go a long way,” he said, speaking with some hesitation.

“Why not the whole way?” demanded Rosabelle, and her eyes flashed a little.

“Miss Sheldon, it is better you should not ask me too many questions till we are more sure of our ground. We experts require a great deal of evidence before we venture to say of any accused man that he is absolutely innocent or absolutely guilty.”

“But if the finger-marks are proved not to be his, how can he be guilty?” she cried obstinately.

“You force me to say what I would rather leave unsaid. But our investigations would not be very useful if we refused to weigh not only every probability, but also every possibility. You say that your uncle firmly believes in this young man’s guilt, although he loved him and treated him like a son. If he still maintains that belief, is it not open to him to say that if Richard Croxton was not the actual thief, he was an accomplice or an accessory? How otherwise could the actual thief have got the necessary knowledge of that safe’s complicated mechanism? Please understand I am not advancing this as my own opinion, but as one that might be entertained.”

And for the first time poor Rosabelle began to see how very hard was the task before them. The tears came into her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Lane, what will be wanted to prove his absolute innocence? I see too clearly the terrible difficulties in our way.”

The great detective spoke very gravely. “The surest way of proving Mr. Croxton’s innocence is by discovering beyond any possibility of doubt the person who opened that safe, and proving that that person, whoever it may be, had no connection with him. To that point my investigations will tend, with what results it is impossible for me to foresee.”

Mr. Morrice gave his permission for the detective’s visit more readily than Rosabelle had hoped. His attitude towards young Croxton now seemed to be more one of sorrow and disappointment than of the deep anger he had at first displayed. But he expressed to her his sense of the futility of the task on which she was engaged.

She thought she knew what was passing in his keen and analytical mind. Croxton was playing a game of bluff, perhaps for the purpose of establishing himself firmly in the esteem of his sweetheart. And if the finger-marks were those of somebody else, he would fall back on the theory that Gideon Lane had already anticipated.

With Richard, her task was easy. He gave an impression of his fingers without a moment’s hesitation, and Rosabelle carried it to Lane with a certain sense of triumph, which would have been complete but for those last damping words of the cautious detective.

In due course the visit was paid to the house in Deanery Street; Rosabelle and her uncle were present. Sure enough in addition to the recent finger-prints of Morrice and young Croxton, there was a third set, equally recent.

The development of the photographs proved that Croxton’s finger-prints were totally different from the third set. Lane announced his intention of taking them to Scotland Yard in order that a search might be made amongst their voluminous files.

His investigations on this subject completed, Lane dispatched a brief telegram to Rosabelle asking her to call at his office. A few minutes after its receipt, she was seated in his room feverishly awaiting his news.

“It promises to be a deeper mystery than I thought, Miss Sheldon. There has been some very clever and deeply thought-out work here. I have identified the finger-prints, they are those of a well-known professional thief named Thomas, known amongst his confederates as ‘Tubby’ Thomas. He is an expert safe-breaker, the cleverest in England.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “An expert safe-breaker!” she repeated joyfully. “Does one want to pursue the inquiry any further? Is it not obvious who was the thief?”

But the next moment came the slow words which fell like ice on her heart.

“Unfortunately, the mystery is deepened, not solved. The finger-prints are those of ‘Tubby’ Thomas, for finger-prints never lie. But ‘Tubby’ Thomas himself has for the last two years been serving a sentence for a similar offence in Dartmoor, and he is still there.”

CHAPTER V
ROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER

Dazed as she was, cast in a moment from a feeling of elation into one of bitter disappointment, she saw the point at once. If the criminal known as “Tubby” Thomas was safe under lock and key, he could not have been the thief. They were as far from the solution of the mystery as ever, in spite of those tell-tale finger-prints which, according to orthodox belief, never lied.

Gideon Lane was bitterly disappointed too, but he had suffered so many checks in his time that he never allowed his fortitude to desert him. When he discovered those finger-prints he really thought the game was in his hands, and that, with the aid of Scotland Yard, he could put his hand on the actual thief, as he could have done had they been those of a criminal actively pursuing his nefarious career. But the incarceration of the man Thomas provided an impasse.

Narrowing the issue to the only two men who were supposed to be acquainted with the complicated mechanism of this wonderful safe, he had thought very deeply, twisting and turning about in his keen and alert mind the possibilities that suggested themselves.

Taking the young man himself first. According to the flattering report of Rosabelle, he led a perfectly blameless and open life. In his habits he was temperate, almost abstemious, he never touched a card, he never betted, the only gambling habit he indulged in was to take a ticket in a couple of club sweepstakes. But, of course, Rosabelle’s report was sure to be coloured a little on the favourable side. There are plenty of young men who lead double lives; models of discretion and decorum to all appearances, but secretly addicted to ruinous and discreditable vices which are only brought suddenly to light by some accident or fatal false step.

This young man might be one of these. He might be hard pressed for money, the victim even of some blackmailer who had become possessed of a terrible secret in his double life, and had risked all his bright prospects on the chance that Morrice would disbelieve the evidence of his senses, and accept his bare denial that he was innocent, in spite of the damning evidence against him.

But if he was clever enough to scheme out such an artfully-planned robbery, either alone or with the aid of a confederate, would he not be clever enough to see that scrupulous honesty and fidelity to his employer was the best policy? For Morrice, according to Rosabelle’s account, had treated him like a son; there was little doubt that he intended to take him into partnership at an early date, and would leave him a considerable slice of his vast fortune. There was no doubt of his wealth, for, by common consent, he was reputed to be amongst the half-dozen richest men in England.

Then there was no doubt that the two young people were lovers. Would a man, capable of a moment’s sane thought, put in certain jeopardy his chances of happiness with this charming and lovable girl?

But then, of course, crimes would never be perpetrated if the criminals could foresee all the consequences likely to flow from their yielding to sudden impulses. At the fatal moment they appeared to be driven forward by some blind force which, for the moment, they were unable to fight against. And so it might have happened in the case of this young man, who, according to Rosabelle’s testimony, had led such a regular and blameless life.

Turning his attention to the other of the two men, Rupert Morrice himself, the detective found the situation one of greater complexity. Strange as it may sound, men have robbed themselves before now and done their best to fix the guilt upon others, from more than one sinister motive. For instance, a man knowing himself to be on the verge of bankruptcy might, in desperation, purloin some of his own property to put it in a safe place beyond the reach of his creditors. In the case of this wealthy financier, whose credit stood so high, such a theory might be at once dismissed.

At first blush, the refusal to apply to Scotland Yard might seem a trifle suspicious, might suggest that he had a personal interest in stifling independent investigation. But when one considered the unusual circumstances, the action seemed only a natural one.

According to Rosabelle’s statement, Morrice had treated the young man as a son; not only had he a great affection for him, but that affection had been accentuated by the elder man’s passionate love for the mother. However deep his belief in his guilt, a father does not hand over a son to be dealt with by the stern processes of justice. He may dismiss him from his house, he may refuse to hold further intercourse with him, but he shields him, where possible, from the fatal consequences of his rash act.

There was, however, one point on which he wished to be assured, and which caused him to put a certain question to the girl.

“I am going to ask you something, Miss Sheldon, not, believe me, from any spirit of impertinent curiosity, but because it is essential that I should be acquainted with every little fact. I am assuming that your interest in Mr. Croxton arises from a warmer feeling than that of mere friendship. Am I not right in saying that there is a close bond between you; that, to put it in plain words, you are lovers?”

Rosabelle admitted quite frankly that Lane was right in his surmise.

“Now for my next question. Did Mr. Morrice know of this understanding between you, and if so, did he approve of it?”

To this the girl’s answer was equally frank. Up to the day of the robbery she could not have been absolutely certain that her uncle did know of it, although she was pretty sure he did. Their interest in each other was so openly displayed, that it was almost impossible it could have escaped his observation. If he had disapproved, he certainly would not have hesitated to express his disapproval, being a man of the most straightforward character, who never scrupled to express what was in his mind, or take drastic action when he judged it necessary.

“All doubt, however, on this point was removed by what he said to Richard on that terrible morning,” Rosabelle went on in a voice that trembled a little. “After overwhelming him with his anger at what he believed to be his baseness, he told him he knew we were attached to each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in our way. It was really as I thought. Richard was always a little dubious as to what his attitude might be, while I never had the slightest fear. We were both so very dear to him that I was always sure our marriage would have given him the greatest pleasure.”

The detective considered her reply carefully, as was his invariable custom. He never accepted any statement without probing it very deeply, none knew better than he the futility of jumping to rash and hasty conclusions.

“There would seem to be some reasonable ground for Mr. Croxton’s doubts in the matter,” he said very quietly. “Kind and generous as Mr. Morrice was to him, there was no actual blood-tie between them; you tell me the young man had practically no money of his own, that his future depended entirely on a continuance of his benefactor’s favour. You, on the other hand, are a near relative and it is to be assumed that your uncle will leave you a considerable sum. It would be a very natural thing that he should have different views for you, should have wished you to look a little higher than one who, after all, was not your equal in anything but birth. At any rate, it is what the ordinary person might think, of course; Mr. Morrice may be an exceptional man of liberal independent views.”

“Oh, but that is just what he is,” cried the girl warmly. In spite of her fervent belief in her lover, and perhaps a little natural resentment against her uncle for his obstinate presumption of Richard’s guilt, she loved him very dearly and thoroughly appreciated his sterling qualities.

“That is just what he is, Mr. Lane,” she repeated. “Rich as he is, hard as he works to make himself so, he does not love money for its own sake or value the possession of it in others. One or two of his closest friends are poor men, and he is happier in their society than in that of millionaires like himself. He loves his business and his work, it is true, but more for the mental excitement and stimulus they bring than for their pecuniary results. And he doesn’t attach much importance to birth or what the world calls position. At heart, I believe he is a good bit of a democrat.”

“If a millionaire can be truly a democrat!” suggested Mr. Lane with a smile. “Anyway, if he is one, there must be a good many reservations.”

The girl’s replies to his questions had rather disposed of a somewhat fantastic theory that had formed itself in rather nebulous shape in his astute brain, accustomed to weigh all sorts of possibilities and probabilities, to search for unusual and far-reaching motives. Had Morrice engineered this theft, not for the ordinary sordid reasons, but with the object of fixing upon the innocent secretary a stigma that would effectually remove him from his niece’s society? But then again, a man who could in cold blood conceive such a scheme would be more than the vilest criminal. It would be impossible that one of such good repute, for even his enemies and rivals credited Morrice with the highest integrity, should stoop to such sinister methods.

“Well, Miss Sheldon,” he said as the interview drew to a close, “I will not disguise that I am very disappointed with the result of my visit to Scotland Yard. When I found those strange finger-marks on the safe, I thought we were on the right track. Now, I have got to start again from the beginning, and I am afraid it will be a long time before I shall make any considerable headway. I shall do my best, but it may be that in the end I shall be beaten. I think you said you would be going abroad very shortly.”

“Yes, we start for Mürren a week before Christmas for the winter sports. I was so looking forward to it, but now——” The girl’s voice faltered and she could not finish her sentence.

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lane soothingly. “All the same it will be better for you to get away for a time from these painful associations. I will, of course, keep in touch with you to the day of your departure, and communicate to you anything of importance. If you don’t hear from me, you will know that so far I have nothing to tell you. You will, of course, acquaint Mr. Morrice with the rather puzzling information about the man Thomas, that while the finger-prints are undoubtedly his, he is and has been for the last two years in prison.”

It all seemed very hopeless, she thought, as she rose to leave. It was useless to ask Lane if he had formed any theory; she had seen enough of the man to know that he would not say a word till he felt himself justified in speaking.

“One little thing before you go, Miss Sheldon. Will you kindly let me know your aunt’s maiden name, and, if you possess them, any particulars of her family.”

Rosabelle did not know much beyond the fact that she was a Miss Larchester; that her sister, no longer living, the mother of Archie Brookes, had married a younger brother of Sir George. She was not quite sure but she fancied that, as a girl, Mrs. Morrice’s home had been in Sussex, but she did not know in what part. The lady very seldom alluded to her past life. Her Christian name was Lettice.

Mr. Lane entered the scanty information in his notebook, then, after Rosabelle’s departure, he rang up White’s Club and inquired for a Mr. Sellars. In a few moments this gentleman was speaking to him.

“Good-day, Mr. Sellars. I should be obliged if you would come round to me as soon as convenient.”

The reply was that the owner of the name would at once put himself in a taxi and be there in a few minutes.

CHAPTER VI
LANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT

Mr. Sellars, Reggie Sellars as he was known to his intimates, was a tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, of the aristocratic type, with aquiline features and an elegant figure. Following no settled occupation or profession, he formed one of that numerous brigade of men-about-town who belong to good clubs, frequent respectable society and always seem to have plenty of money for their personal wants, although nobody knows the exact source of their incomes, or how they contrive to present such a good appearance.

These men are usually very scrupulous in money matters, pay their bets promptly when they lose and expect to be paid as promptly when they win, are never behindhand in a club subscription, liberal but not ostentatious in their tips to waiters. Many of them, in fact most, have a small annuity which forms the nucleus of their income; how the rest of that income is earned is often a puzzle to even their most intimate friends.

Mr. Sellars was one of a large family, some twelve in all, sons and daughters. His father had left capital bringing in about fifteen hundred a year to be divided amongst this numerous offspring. This brought Reggie in the modest competence of about a hundred odd pounds a year. He dressed very well, and his tailor must have taken more than that. It was obvious, therefore, that he had a knack of picking up money somehow and somewhere, as he belonged to several clubs, frequented fashionable society, and was by no means an anchorite in his tastes.

As a matter of fact, he lived on his wits, using the expression in a perfectly respectable sense. He furnished gossip to a well-known Society newspaper for which he received a liberal remuneration; he was a scientific backer of horses, he played a first-rate hand at bridge, sometimes he got a handsome fee for initiating some nouveau riche into the mysteries of fashionable life. Since his acquaintance with Mr. Gideon Lane, he had often been useful to that gentleman, and had been paid well for his services.

They had met at a Bohemian club to which both men belonged, for Reggie Sellars, although of very good family and an aristocrat by instinct and connection, was by no means exclusive, and was equally at home in Bohemia and Mayfair.

At first Lane had not been attracted to the young man, whom he regarded as the usual type of lounger who led a life of aimless pleasure, a mere idler with whom he was not likely to have anything in common. And, truth to tell, although in a certain way he was one of the shrewdest fellows alive, Sellars’ good-looking countenance did not furnish any striking evidence of mentality or strenuous impulse.

But one night in the smoking-room the two got into a conversation on the subject of criminals and criminology, and Lane found that this seemingly idle, pleasure-loving young man, with apparently no thoughts beyond the race-course and the bridge-table, displayed a keen knowledge and a swift power of deduction that astonished him.

Lane had a considerable clientèle amongst persons high up in the social scale, he frequently wanted to obtain special information about people belonging to or moving in fashionable circles. Into such quarters he was unable to penetrate himself for obvious reasons. Here was a man just fitted for the job, keen, quiet, quick in resource; a man, in short, disguising a considerable mentality under a most deceptive exterior. Lane suggested that there was certain work in which his previous knowledge and facilities of approach could be of material assistance to him. Mr. Reginald Sellars, the good-looking young man-about-town, jumped at the proposal, and Lane had to confess that, in his own line, he had never possessed a more competent lieutenant.

He was just the man for the Morrice job, or at any rate one particular portion of it, and that was why the busy and brainy detective had rung him up to-day.

“Not been very long, eh, Lane?” was the young man’s greeting as he entered the private room. “Always ready for business, you know, for anything that brings grist to the mill. I hope you’ve got something good for me.”

At his fashionable clubs, in the society of his aristocratic friends, he cultivated a rather languid manner. When he talked to practical people like Lane his tone was brisk, his whole manner alert.

The detective went to the point at once. “Of course, you know of Rupert Morrice, the big financier, most probably you are personally acquainted with him?”

“Known him for years, he was rather a pal of my father’s, used to give him a good tip now and then for his investments,” was the answer. “Can’t say I’m one of the intimates of the house, but always get a card for their big things, have been asked twice, I think, to fill up a dinner-party. What’s up?”

But without answering his question, Lane asked one himself. “We all know the man’s story, that is public property. But what about Mrs. Morrice; do you know anything about her antecedents, her family, her history, before she met her husband?”

Sellars shook his head. “I’ve never heard, I don’t think anybody has. A very charming woman, well-bred and all that, does the honours perfectly, but never seems to talk about herself as most of her sex do. The only thing I can remember is that some few years ago a nephew was introduced, a young chap named Archie Brookes, who was also a nephew of Sir George Clayton-Brookes who is as well-known in London as the Monument. Her sister married his younger brother, we were told.”

“You don’t know her maiden name?”

“No, but that of course can easily be got at Somerset House,” said the bright young man who had proved such an able colleague.

“Of course, I know that, but we need not go there. I have got the name, a rather uncommon one. She was a Miss Lettice Larchester, and I believe she hails from somewhere in Sussex.”

“And you want me to find out all about her before she became Mrs. Morrice, eh? He met her and married her abroad, I suppose you know that. He was awfully gone on Mrs. Croxton, the mother of that young chap whom he practically adopted and who acts as his secretary. It is said he remained a bachelor for years because of her.”

Reggie Sellars’ knowledge of the annals of the people who moved in certain circles was of the most exhaustive nature. And he had a memory like a vice; he never forgot a fact or a date, and never confused one history with another. He was certainly a most deceptive person. To look at him you would never imagine he would take the slightest trouble to acquire any knowledge that was not strictly necessary for his own immediate purposes.

“Yes, I want you to find out all you can about her; of course you will make your inquiries very discreetly. But, there, I need not warn you of that. You are always discreet.”

And in truth he was. He could pursue the most delicate investigations without giving himself away for a second.

“Well, now, you haven’t given me an inkling of what’s up yet, and you know I’m not fond of working in the dark. Why this sudden interest in Mrs. Morrice’s past?”

Lane was not addicted to telling more than he could help, for secrecy had become an ingrained habit with him. But the young man was a bit touchy on some things. He was especially so on the point that perfect confidence should be reposed in him, and it must be admitted that that confidence was never abused. He was a perfectly honourable young fellow, and his word was better than the bond of a good many people.

So Lane told him the salient details of the robbery in Deanery Street, ending with the remarkable discovery of the finger-prints of “Tubby” Thomas, and the incarceration of that accomplished criminal.

The quick mind of Sellars speedily grasped the complicated nature of this puzzling case. “By Jove, it wants a bit of thinking out, doesn’t it, Lane? In the meantime, according to your invariable custom, you are suspecting everybody, including Mrs. Morrice; the secretary, of course, and Morrice himself, and naturally the Brookes’s, uncle and nephew.”

Lane smiled. “I intend to know everything I can about every one of them. I exclude the servants, it is too deep a job for any of them.”

“And what about that pretty girl, the niece, what’s her name—eh, Miss Sheldon? You’ve got your eye on her, of course?” He spoke in rather a joking manner, for he often rallied Lane on his tendency to reverse the usual principle of British law and believe everybody to be guilty till his innocence was fully established.”

“She is a very charming young lady,” replied the detective a little grimly, for he did not relish being chaffed. “But I shall certainly not exclude her from the scope of my investigations if all others fail. Well now, look here, Mr. Sellars, I expect it will take you a little time to get at Mrs. Morrice’s history. What do you know about this Clayton-Brookes and his nephew? The uncle is a great racing man, I understand, and you are amongst the racing set.”

“I know Sir George just a little, we nod to each other when we meet, but I don’t think I have exchanged half a hundred words with him in my life. Archie Brookes I know about as well. But I can tell you this, he is not popular; most people think him a bit of a bounder. Do you want me to investigate in that quarter too?”

“Yes, I wish you to find out all you can. I want you to discover particularly what is known about the young man’s father who, according to what we are told, married Mrs. Morrice’s sister.”